As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: Imrahil is bored. Finduilas is upset. Denethor is being canon Denethor. Time and tide wait for no man, nor woman. How do two of Gondor's brightest learn to float on when it comes to matters of the heart?
1. Breaking Waves

As Golden Leaves Upon the Sea

Summary: Imrahil is bored. Finduilas is upset. Denethor is being (canon!)Denethor. Time and tide wait for no man, nor woman. How do two of Gondor's brightest learn to float on when it comes to matters of the heart?

A/N: Inspiration comes from a variety of sources, but ultimately the Hurins and the House of Dol Amroth belong to Tolkien. Thanks goes out to Jen Littlebottom and http/ w w w. tuckborough. net/imrahil. html for their information on the family trees and the etymology, (which ultimately led to my theory for the less common 'Las's hair color debate).

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"I don't understand it. Father's never pushed for this before, and I've plenty of time to think about such things. Why is he suddenly encouraging a match with a man twice my age?" Finduilas paced the sunroom irritably, bringing a lock of the autumn-blond hair she had been named for up to her mouth. Her younger brother watched her sardonically, letting his feet swing as he sat in the window overlooking the bay. With his sister working herself into a good full-tilt rant, the view inside was currently more interesting than the waves swelling up in the harbor. 

"Well, you know it's not just any fellow coming in from Gondor. The Lord Steward's hinted that he'd approve of the match, if you and Denethor hit it off." Imrahil ignored her death glare.

"No, we will not 'hit it off,' Imrahil. The man is twice my age, and possesses no sense of humor whatsoever. We shall have absolutely nothing to talk about. He's from inland! Inland!" Her hazel eyes flashed as if this made him second best when compared to an orc. To the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, perhaps it did. Even on dry land, the woman kept a roll in her walk as if she were pacing a deck in a storm. Her brother had trouble picturing her away from the sea.

Still, since her ranting was providing his afternoon amusement during the rainstorm, Imrahil could not help but play the devil's advocate. "They at least say he's a very intelligent man," he offered, watching her go by again, chewing upon the tip of a reddish-blond curl.

"Ah, good. I see that my education shan't go to waste, at least." She stood for a moment, facing her brother with a farcical grin. "Oh, Lord Denethor, yes, I'm your willing brood mare. Mount me so that we might have smart children!"

Imrahil was torn between laughter and horror. The latter won over as the door creaked open. "Finny – "

"Don't 'Finny' me, Imrahil. You taught me worse ones; you shouldn't sit there like a gasping fish if I happen to use a term." She stood with hands on curvy hips, her hair dropped from her mouth.

"Finny, behind you," Imrahil croaked.

"Lord Denethor, I presume? Disenchanted, I'm sure." Finduilas had the grace to curtsy, although the black-haired man in the doorway momentarily looked as stunned as the half-grown youth lounging by the window.

The man in the doorway was the first to recover, quickly smoothing his features into a calm, mild mask. "Amazing that a lady such as yourself should remain unmarried so long." He gave a slight bow of his head in return.

"There's no need to tease, my lord." Finduilas blushed shyly. It was one thing to rant about a potential fiance to her brother, but quite another to possibly affront the Steward's son by speaking in such a manner to his face.

"My lady, they tell me I have no sense of humor. I was being quite serious." There was a certain gleam in the Steward's heir's dark eyes that assured her that he was perfectly aware of what they had been speaking about. "A lady of your candor must be highly valued at your father's side." He bowed with precise courtesy over her hand, neither showing her disrespect nor overmuch flattery.

"Well, with little brothers, one might say more than what one may at court," Finduilas said as partial apology.

Denethor gave Imrahil a sympathetic glance. "Aye, my sisters were quite fond of gossiping over their suitors with me as well." The younger man nodded. He might yet take a liking to this Steward's heir, for all Denethor's grimness in court.

Finduilas would not stand for much more of this condescension. "May I help you, my lord?" she asked bluntly.

"His highness has asked for your presence in our next meeting, and I thought to simplify the matter by alerting you upon my way," Denethor said.

"You did not know that we would be in here," Finduilas accused.

"I have ears, my lady. Lord Imrahil, your father had requested your attendance as well." With another perfectly mechanical bow, the Steward's son turned to walk out of the room.

"Come, Imrahil," his sister said through gritted teeth, wrapping her arm about his. "We'll have to go put on the proper presentation, at least."

"Shrew," he chided her affectionately.

"I may not be the best behaved lady in the court, but I'm not – not a _gossip_, am I, Immy?" Some of the wounded pride left her stiffened backbone, and Finduilas deflated accordingly. She trusted her brother to give her an honest appraisal, although the use of the childhood nickname suggested that she was trawling for support.

"Well, as Lord Denethor has so dully noted, you do not hesitate to give your opinion, Finny." Imrahil could not help but smile. His sister would be on her best behavior during the meeting, simply to spite the man, but the Dol Amrothi was willing to bet that the Steward's heir would get an earful sooner or later if he stayed around long enough. And with the storm outside, Denethor was not likely going to be able to leave anytime soon. Of, course, neither was Imrahil, and his sister may well have something to say to him, as well.

Imrahil looked wishfully out towards the rain-tossed waves as they passed an unshuttered window, careful to avoid the resultant puddle from wind-blown water. He ought to shut that, but if his father wanted him now, there was little time to secure the windows.

Internally doing what he could to batten down for the storm ahead, Imrahil took in a deep breath outside the door to the council chamber, and felt his sister copy him at his side. Their father was not a particularly harsh or unkind man, but Adrahil's council meetings were spirited, at best. Imrahil remembered Denethor's expression on the way out of his first council meeting. The Steward's heir had been quick to hide it, but there had been a moment when his face had registered pure contempt for the undisciplined, rowdy, and very public meetings of the lords of Belfalas. _This should prove interesting, if naught else,_ Imrahil predicted. With his sister on his arm, he stepped inside.


	2. Storm Rising

AN: I own nothing. The OC names are thanks to Navaer Lalaith. Their personalities come from a sudden 1812-era muse. Tolkien owns the rest.

Thank you very much for your encouraging and helpful reviews! As a Hurin fanatic, I assure you that I'll be doing my best to keep Denethor as firmly book-verse as possible. I also have found a capable spell-check, so I hope I don't embarrass my Inner Grammar Nut quite so badly this time. All comments are appreciated!

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"Now how am I to take my produce up the river without a ship? Lord Denethor, surely you can understand the need to keep clothes on the backs of your people?" The head of the Trader's Guild attempted to appeal to the inlander, as his prince's expression did not prophesy any sympathy in the near future.

The Steward's heir wisely kept his mouth shut, knowing that in this meeting, at least, someone was bound to jump in before he had to come out with his opinion. If one listened, one could all but let these matters solve themselves. Denethor had noticed that for all the shouting that typically went on during these "discussions," the Prince of Dol Amroth rarely stated his opinion outright until all the fight had gone out of his councilors. Adrahil merely let his body language do the talking. Only when fisticuffs threatened to break out did the prince speak before the debate was over.

"I trust Minas Tirith has a few darning needles about herself. They are in no danger of famine. However, Master Hithaer, our people are in danger of coastal raids. We need every ship we can get," the Admiral interrupted, as Denethor thought he would.

"Are we Umbarian barbarians, though, that we must abduct free men and vessels for the navy?" Hithaer of the Trader's Guild snarled at his associate.

"Someone must man the ships. Would you prefer to trust your craft to some know-nothing inlander?" Finduilas spoke up. Her father's expression darkened further, and Imrahil let his forehead drop into an open palm. She had put her foot right in the fish offal, hadn't she?

"I'm sure my daughter means no offense, my lords," Adrahil said, attempting to forestall further hostility. Denethor had barely raised an eyebrow, unwilling to let the young woman and the rest of the council affect his calm. "But she is right, despite her rather impolitic method. We must all make sacrifices with the Dark Lord rising in the east and corsairs harassing our ports. The recruitment of able-bodied sailors and conscription of private ships will continue until the new frigates are finished, but owners and enlisted sailors should be amply rewarded for their trouble."

"I don't see why we can't just put the cavalrymen on the ships," the Guildmaster grumbled, but nodded at his prince's decree.

"We can't fit our horses on the boats, and not many are trained to fight at sea," Imrahil explained. His father had insisted that the youth would be trained for amphibious battle, but unlike his sister, the dark-haired young man preferred the roll of a cantering steed to the rock of a boat on the waves.

"'Tis well enough, Imrahil," his father halted him. "Now, Master Hithaer, I believe you wanted to discuss security measures for the docks and trading fleets?"

"Aye, my lord. We're doing what we can, but even Admiral Nemir must understand the need to leave the docks open. Yes, there are pirates out there, but there aren't many fish inland, either." The head of the Trader's Guild eyed the pleased military commander vengefully.

"The docks shall not be closed. We patrol them merely for your own safety," the Admiral insisted.

Hithaer snorted. "Some safety! My guild-members complain of harassment on the docks, and there's no protective escort for the caravan ships when we're out on the open water."

"We're low on craft, man! There's no way we can go out with every two-man fishing boat." Nemir pounded a fist into the table. "And they're soldiers. They are designed to search a vessel thoroughly, not dance about merchants' overly delicate tempers."

"Train them so that they are more gentle, Admiral," Adrahil told him. "The harassment of Dol Amrothi merchants will stop, although we must continue to check for smugglers. I would hate to have to tie up my Swan Knights with so simple a procedure." Although Imrahil did not look forward to this potential assignment, it was nice of his father to suggest it. There was a long-standing friendly rivalry between the fleet and the cavalry, something that had allowed Imrahil's fellow riders no small bit of pride when the heir of Belfalas gravitated to their side. He'd been teased for being a "seal on a horse," but welcomed as a sign of good things to come, after both his father and elder sisters had long favored the navy.

The rival military groups could agree on a couple of things, of course: both traditionally felt themselves above the small land-bound infantry, both would willingly die for their land and their prince, and both hated dealings with civilian groups. Imrahil was very glad to see pride in his men outweighed the Admiral's distaste for dock duty. However, the prince's son would not wish to be amongst the soldiers being trained for the search brigade, given their superior's expression. "Sir," Nemir said tonelessly.

"Once we have enough free ships, we will see about escorts for the merchant fleets. Until then, I recommend you stay in groups and keep a few men armed. The flag of Belfalas flies for your protection, Master Hithaer, but it cannot fly everywhere at once. Thank you gentlemen, but I believe the goals of this meeting to be accomplished. Unless Minas Tirith has anything to add, Lord Denethor?" Adrahil asked the Steward's heir.

"I would not presume to tell you how to run your country, Prince Adrahil." Denethor nodded, and the Admiral and Guildmaster slipped away at their lord's dismissal. Imrahil stood as well, assuming that his father would not need him for the next item on the agenda. To his surprise, the prince motioned for him to sit back down.

"I appreciate your confidence in me, my lord," Adrahil said with a light smile. "But we know that it is your father, and someday, you, who is the ultimate authority in Dol Amroth. I know that we currently run ourselves with little interference from the capitol, but with Sauron rising, there shall be greater matters to concern ourselves with than merchants' fears of harassment by our own soldiers. I would like to better know the man in charge of coordinating the providences."

"What is it that you would wish to know, your highness?" Denethor spread his hands as if to invite further questions, but Imrahil could tell that for all his niceties, the man's mind was on something else.

"I suppose the first thing we should know is your opinion on sailing," Imrahil gave his sister a devious look. Finduilas set her teeth, refusing to get riled up during this meeting.

Denethor raised an eyebrow, noting the siblings' silent exchange. "It is good enough as any as means of transportation, but I doubt we'll be too worried about going out in this weather, aye?"

"You'll want to be; trust me," the younger man leaned forward conspirationally.

"You'll have to show Lord Denethor the ships once this storm clears," Finduilas suggested icily, her tone hinting that it should prove a most interesting trip to the dockyard for both of them.

"Sounds like a fine idea, Finduilas. And I know you'll hardly let any ship out of the docks without seeing it off personally. I trust you will wish to accompany these two out to the harbor? We truly don't have many of our larger ships free, but surely a smaller boat can be spared so that Minas Tirith might better survey our defenses." Denethor had to admit a grudging admiration for Adrahil at this point. The prince might allow a mob mentality in his court, but he was well versed in manipulating those fiery tempers into doing exactly what he wanted.

Finduilas, meanwhile, leaned back against the stone wall, convinced of a mass male conspiracy. At least she could still hear the irregular staccato of the rain against granite. She hoped the storm would never end.


	3. Riptide

A/N: The characters are Tolkien's, including Ivriniel. He never really said what happened to her. "Captain Randil," as the folks on my LiveJournal may be able to figure out, is based upon "Captain Randall" by the Glengarry Bhoys. I'm not even going to attempt a filk, knowing the Pit's songfic policy, but if you stop by my homepage and ask me about it, I might be able to set you up with a link to the original song, if you'd like to hear it.

Also, while I'm tiptoeing around ff's policies, I could use a beta for this and a Potterverse WIP. I'm not requesting that anyone respond to me via email or LJ, and certainly not in a review, but if someone happens to see this and has the time to do it, there's nothing wrong with the person talking to me at livejournal. com/user/b2wm or bozswargmissy at yahoo. com.

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The late afternoon pleasantries with the Prince of Dol Amroth's family had been kept short, as the foul weather seemed to tax the entire group's spirits. Finduilas had left as soon as she could, claiming a headache. Imrahil was eager to get back to the rest of his Swan Knights, so as to update his superior officers – and quite likely, the rest of his friends as well, if that knowing grin was any indication, – of the results of the council.

Denethor himself was beginning to feel the effort it took to maintain a polite and mild calmness in this sea of unbridled madness. Therefore, when Adrahil offered a guide to show him about the palace, he declined respectfully, and took some unrestrained joy of his own in the blessed, quiet solitude. He made no attempt to seek out any particular person or place, but simply wandered the hallways, keeping his ears open and his face relaxed, allowing himself to muse over what all had taken place since his meeting with the Prince had begun. He tried not to look like he was pacing, letting his feet carry him about the prince's home in wide, wandering circles, but he turned around once, thinking he had heard a woman's light step come up behind him. There was no one there when he looked.

Denethor found her pacing in the eaves beneath the garden later that evening, during his self-guided wanderings of the palace grounds. Even here, one could still see the waves tossing along the shoreline. _Even their defensive structures are laid open_, Denethor mused, unsure of what to make of the less refined, unguardedly emotional Dol Amrothi culture.

And here, as if to bring all of its vexing chaos into a single point, was Finduilas. He was cynical of any true romance blossoming between them, but he had been willing to give her a chance, at least. His sisters, who had decided that it was high time their little brother got married so that he might smile occasionally, had not been lying about her beauty, nor had they likely exaggerated her mental capacities overmuch, if her father regularly invited her to the council table.

"We needn't be enemies, my lady. I hope that whatever the result of this misguided courtship, we might remain allies, at least." Denethor stood against a pillar just inside of her path, ostensibly watching the rain.

"In love, I fear there are no alliances, Lord Denethor, only those that are not currently aiming your way." He was careful not to let his eyes follow her as she walked past him, chewing a strand of reddish-blonde hair.

"You're awfully jaded for one so young, Lady Finduilas." She, however, had made no secret of her dislike for him. It was probably just as well, he decided. Now the Steward's heir could concentrate on the business of observing the navy and fulfill his diplomatic duties without worrying overmuch about the thoughts of one spoiled girl.

Finduilas stopped in her tracks, spinning angrily towards him. "You would prefer that I shut my eyes and allowed you to break my heart in whatever way you wish? I know something about what love can do to a woman."

"A personal loss?" Denethor did his best to remain calm and sympathetic. He vaguely remembered that his eldest sister had been fond of this game of driving suitors mad with jealousy and frustration, but he wouldn't let Finduilas get away with it. She didn't even like him, did she? At least, he wouldn't let her make him jealous.

"You could say that." The autumn-haired woman turned away.

"Dare I ask his name, or shall you think me prying into personal affairs that don't concern me?" He raised an eyebrow, making no effort to mask his stare.

She laughed gently at this, although he continued to look deadly serious. "Randil," she murmured softly.

"Wasn't that the name of a drinking song?" One he had heard not only from the sailors on the way to Dol Amroth, but from Prince Adrahil himself, Denethor believed.

"Aye, 'twas Ivriniel's favorite. She swore she'd met the captain that inspired it. She left to see him one day, when the rain was worse when it is now, and the flood tide made it impossible to dock. She kept watch all night for him, with a lantern in her hand, but never did see his ship. No one did. Then the wind blew the current especially hard and high, and she was swept off the docks. She was a strong swimmer, but who could survive that?" Finduilas gestured to the unquiet waves.

"You were close?" Denethor looked out to sea, standing next to the young woman. He wrapped his arms more tightly about his chest against the harsh wind.

"Who appreciates their older siblings when they are around? She taught me to swim, and to sail, and verses of the old sea-ballads, but we fought as any sisters might." Finduilas shrugged irritably. She, too, shivered slightly in the chill sea breeze, but she refused to show it. She was thankful that the wind had blown her hair about her face, masking her expression.

"Simply because you fought with her does not mean that you do not love her." Finduilas glanced sharply at her companion, but Denethor's dark eyes were as impenetrable as ever, staring out towards the sea.

"What do you mean, sir?" her voice was soft as she continued to stare at him, but promised pain, should he give the wrong answer.

"My lady, I argue with my sisters constantly, but that does not mean that I am unhappy to see them when they can attend court." He granted her a brief smile, before turning back towards the entrance to the house.

"You said we might be allies in this matter, Denethor, but that requires goals that do not conflict with one another. What are you after here?" Finduilas brushed her hand against his shoulder.

Denethor caught it, bowing over the hand briefly in the typical perfectly proper kiss. "Currently, my lady, I enjoy vexing you."

"That's not an answer," Finduilas insisted.

"Did I promise you one, my lady? It is practically freezing out here, and given shelter, I suggest we take it." He had noted her momentary lapse in formality, and was unsure whether to take it as a sign of some small victory.

Behind him, the young woman pulled her arms tightly into her chest. Her mouth tightened into a thin grimace. "As proper as you pretend to be, you are an arrogant prick, aren't you?" she muttered under her breath.

"I only return milady's graciousness," he replied softly, holding the door for her. Finduilas nodded once and turned down a hallway, flipping her windblown hair over her shoulder.

It was most definitely an uncertain victory, for uncertain aims, he decided. She had compared affairs of the heart to the field of war, but as a military commander, Denethor could not understand the comparison. No matter what chaos might currently reign in the battlefield, one at least knew what one's ultimate goal would be. Sometimes one had to retreat, and sometimes there was a small victory, but one knew whom one was fighting against and what one was fighting for. Here, the Steward's son was unsure.

He glanced once more in the direction that Finduilas had stormed off. As open as the people of Dol Amroth were, they could be so confusing. Denethor was forced to admit that he was absolutely vexed.


	4. A Punishing Wind

AN: They're all Tolkien's. I don't even own my plotbunnies, here, people. Thank you for sticking with the story!

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As soon as she awoke the next morning, Finduilas peered out her window. To her twisted satisfaction, the weather had not improved visibly overnight. It would not put an end to the awkwardness around the Steward's son, but it would also prevent him from spoiling anything associated with what she had always secretly considered her dock. 

Ivriniel had given it to her. Never officially, naturally, but her sister had showed Finduilas all the ins and outs of the docks; and introduced the younger girl to the beaches, boats, and creatures that made up the boatyards of the bay. In a way that Imrahil had been too young to grasp, Finduilas had found a home in the roar of the sea and the press of people coming and leaving from the shore, every one of them with a story to tell. Whether it was the cry of the gull or rumbles of thunder above the waves, even the sea air seemed to bring news of those beyond this shore. On those winds, you could even hear from the places that no one could sail away from. Ivriniel sung with the breeze and the seabirds, and it was up to Finduilas to listen for her.

Today, she would be content to listen from the window. Irregular gusts would drive the rain nearly horizontal: now towards the palace, now towards the sea. Patterns were created and washed away by the fat drops upon the thin pane of old glass. Finduilas rubbed at the fogged window, assuring herself that it was not simply drippings left over from the day before. Of course it wasn't; the wind and rain had moored most of the ships for one day more. No sane man would sail in this weather, if he could help it.

It was then that she heard the pounding on the door. "Finny! Are you decent? Surely you must be out of bed by now!" The sky was still darkened by the storm, but the fire in her room had burnt down to a few half-hearted coals, suggesting that she had slept later than she usually did. Dealing with that overly smug Steward's son had taxed her reserves, Finduilas assured herself.

"A minute, Imrahil! Surely it's nothing that can't wait long enough for me to put on a dress." The young woman scrambled from the window, changing as quickly as she could. There were times when she hated her brother's recently accquired millitary discipline.

"Just because some of us don't get up to tend to the horses doesn't mean they can laze around all day. Now come on, Lord Denethor wants to go down to the harbor this morning." This stopped Finduilas in her tracks; the lacing on her dress falling from her fingers untied.

"Is the man mad?" she gasped. "The horses must be fed and cared for every day, but what is there at the dockyard but rain and waves? You could hardly expect an Umbarian raid on a day like today."

"Which suits my purposes perfectly, my lady," a familiar voice sounded beyond her door. "With this storm, we might get a close survey of the fleet without the risk of pulling the ships away from their needful patrols and leaving the coastline open to attack. Besides, what better way to assure the integrety of the hulls than to check them for leaks in the storm?" Denethor obviously knew little about the maintenance of ships. With that much water dripping from you and the ceilings, there would be little chance of finding the source of a small leak.

Finduilas laughed darkly, and finished lacing up her dress, taking her time to smoothe out the wrinkles that had been created by her haste and to double-check her fastenings. The last thing she needed was another opportunity to embarrass herself in his presence. Allowing herself a small grimace of irritation, she stepped out of the room, flipping her sleep-mussed braid over her shoulder.

"You may be the Steward's heir, Lord Denethor, but know that I am not at your every beck and call. Imrahil, you should know better than to lead him to my personal chambers. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall prepare myself properly for our little outing." Finduilas withdrew and shut the door quite firmly before either had a chance to protest.

Her brother, if asked, would have said she had overenthusiastically slammed it in their faces. "He just followed me; I didn't mean anything by it," Imrahil explained to the door. It appeared unmoved by his words. Beyond it, he could hear his sister humming loudly to herself, as if to drown out whatever her unwelcome visitors might have to say. "What else were we supposed to do, Finny?"

There was no clear answer, but Finduilas had developed the rather impressive ability to hum "sod off." Imrahil looked helplessly at his guest.

"Why don't we wait in the gardens? From what little I saw of them, they appear to offer a most impressive view," Denethor suggested appeasingly.

"They're quite nice in good weather, but that cloak of yours would get soaked through out there in no time at all in this storm." the younger man agreed. Imrahil handed Denethor a thicker oil-slicked sealskin cloak, heading towards the exit. "Join us when you're ready, Finny." Her brother gave the door one last futile pounding.

_It was all to be expected, really,_ he supposed. Finduilas was nothing if not stubborn, and she would likely go out of her way to spite the unlucky suitor that did not immediately appeal to her sense of romantic idealism. The fact that Denethor was an inlander was nothing but an excuse for her petty snobbery. Finny had never been in possession of a particularly mild temperament, and she wouldn't listen to reason when her heart was set on some wild passion.

Imrahil shook his head, stepping out under the eaves behind Denethor. There was a winding path through the gardens that led down to the quay, but he was in no hurry to get soaked. A short trip through miserable weather would serve Finduilas right, after that display.

Imrahil just hoped the punishment would be short, for his own sake. He had been out long enough while attending to his morning duties. Had it really been necessary for their father to send him out to the docks with this pair of warring hellcats? They pretended to be civil, but it didn't take half of the diplomatic training Imrahil had been put through to realize just how outrageously Denethor and Finduilas were bickering.

Immersed in his dreary thoughts and the matching weather, the younger man would not have noticed the main target of his grumblings' appearance, had his elder sister not bumped purposefully into him. "What are you waiting for, Imrahil? We've a guest to show around the dockyard." She traded Denethor a sardonic look and wrapped her arm firmly about Imrahil's, setting a decent pace for a forced march, considering she was technically a noncombatant. Finduilas ignored the rain, much as she ignored the man following behind them. She left it up to Imrahil to supply attempts at conversation, which Denethor gently brushed off, for the most part.

Imrahil did not believe that Denethor's real interest lay in the rainswept ships. The man from Minas Tirith seemed perfectly content to listen to the reports of those that knew the crafts better than he did. But if the man had another purpose, other than driving Finduilas mad and towing Imrahil along in her wake, the youth had missed it entirely.

The lord of Dol Amroth lagged slightly once they reached the dockyard, holding his sister up until the other man had passed them. Denethor walked with his head held high, examining the ships from behind his hood. Imrahil wondered if he was the only one affected by the rain anymore. Pride was a better cover than otter-skin.

Well, Imrahil could show a bit of pride, too. He looked around, hoping to find a captian he recognized. Even in this weather, a few people would have to watch their ships to make sure that nothing came unmoored. Unfortunately, most knew to do this under some form of shelter, so there was no one for Imrahil to find.

Stuck in the rain with a pair of silent, moody nobles, Imrahil sighed, letting Finduilas steer him along behind Denethor. She examined everything the Steward's son touched as if his very gaze could bore holes in her beloved ships.

"You could talk to him, Finny," her brother grumbled, looking wishfully at the flapping sheets of canvas that covered the saner weather-watchers.

"And what would be the point in that? He knows my feelings on this matter already, I am sure." She continued to ignore the rain, chewing unconsciously at a tendril of hair. She knew her feelings, but was yet unsure of Denethor's reasonings for bringing them out here.

Her brother just rolled his eyes. It looked like it was going to be a long day, after all.


	5. Stinging Rain

A/N: As you may have guessed, they aren't my characters. Sorry for the long time between updates, but the Den/Fin Files have been eating my brain. I've almost completed the 50 for the challenge, but for the first anniversary of accepting the 50lyricsfanfic challenge, I figured I'd update my first (as yet unfiled) File. "Golden Leaves" has also made Gondor's Finest at The Last Ruling Steward Archives. Check out all the Denethor goodies at http/whitetower.onlyfiction. net/ (without the space.)

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"This one," Denethor decided, stopping in front of a rather small, heavily creaking vessel. "Looks like a good ship for this weather, if your father can be persuaded to let us use it for a few hours."

"I'm sure Father will have no problem with it, but it's the owner's permission you need to get. Many of these smaller boats are privately owned. They're too small to carry enough men to hold off a raider's frigate," Imrahil explained, feeling rather distrustful of Denethor's idea of "a good ship." His sister released his arm, starting angrily towards the Steward's heir. From her stormy expression, Imrahil derived another reason why he would much rather be sitting in the relative peace and safety of a rain tent.

Imrahil missed the curious look that passed between the two others, focused as he was upon finding shelter. Finduilas shook her head miserably at their guest, praying that the man would have chosen any ship besides that one. It was not for the state of the vessel, though she knew as well as her brother did that it was possibly the most run-down ship to float in the docks. "Don't bother, Lord Denethor. I know the owner, and he does not risk his ship needlessly," she attempted to dissuade him.

The Steward's son was not so easily thrown off the track. "Then it is a good thing that I do not mean to put his ship at risk. You have said yourself that the men of Dol Amroth sail in worse weather than this," he replied glibly.

Finduilas wracked her mind, fishing for a ghost of a good excuse that he could not turn back on her. _"Sea Mist_ had a sister ship." There, it was out before she could second-guess herself. Denethor turned from his study of the boat and raised an indulgent eyebrow at her. "Her sister was the _Sea Gleam_," she paused, looking to Imrahil for backup. His spine had tightened at the mention of that name, but her brother still pretended to ignore them, his search for shelter not yet willingly abandoned. "Randil's ship," she whispered reluctantly.

"Ivriniel's ship," Imrahil spat. "I recognize the name, even if you and Father saw fit to hide the ship itself from me."

"_Sea Gleam_'s gone," Finduilas said, taking a step towards her brother.

Denethor paled in consternation beneath his hood, though Finduilas took no joy in the sight. "Forgive me, I did not know." The proud head bowed towards the siblings. "Another ship would serve just as well."

"No," Imrahil said before his sister could suggest an end to their trip. This was likely to be a very, very long day, but somehow, Imrahil no longer minded. "No, this boat will do perfectly. I'll talk to the owner." At long last, the young man disappeared under the shelter of a rain tent. His sister took a few halting steps in his wake, but stopped before she came close to the tent, her posture sinking.

"Are you well, milady?" Denethor asked, approaching from behind. He stood little more than an arm's length away, and his bearing was the most awkward Finduilas had ever seen from this self-possessed man of Minas Tirith. His spine remained ramrod straight, but his arms were crossed tightly before him. After a moment, Finduilas realized what looked so unusual about it: instead of the left arm guarding the right, as was typical in that position, Denethor had unthinkingly put his sword arm before his left.

She decided to ignore the fact for now. "Aye, I suppose," she replied, avoiding looking into his face. "But Imrahil may not be. He was so young when it happened… We thought it best to keep the details from him, but he has always been overcautious about the sea since that day."

"I would not blame him, though he seems rather reckless in what pursuits I have seen him at," Denethor said, glancing towards the tent. No lightning-bolt illuminated the interior, nor did the wind blow loose the heavy canvas flaps, secured tightly from the inside. The wind did, however, manage to chill Finduilas's rolling stomach, as the rain had chilled her extremities. The rain also eliminated any chance of overhearing the conversation between Imrahil and the ship's owner.

"Is that so? He seems positively guarded of late to me," she replied, trying to hide her distress by lightening the mood.

"Well, to you, I suppose he would." There was no obvious merriment in Denethor's tone, only the usual sarcasm verging upon chastisement.

_A great comfort, that man_, Finduilas thought. _Makes me feel like a naughty child when I try to open up to him._ She sighed, nibbling restlessly at a strand of hair and watching the rain tent. _Well, if I am going to be naughty, I may as well at least be sensible._ "Come on," she said, tapping upon the tarp. "There's no sense in standing out here all day." Finduilas reached inside the canvas to let herself in, to find her brother trying to stare down a grizzled old sailor. She dropped her hood, trying to shake some of the excess water from her coat. Denethor followed silently after her, tying the canvas back into place before squeezing the water out of his own sleeves.

At their appearance, the captain and the young princeling had gone silent. "For her?" the sailor asked at last.

"For my sister." Imrahil looked straight at the captain, neither confirming nor denying his suspicion.

"Never. It's too close, too alike. I'd never sail in this weather, anyway. We've lost too many good men, and not just in that storm." The _Sea Mist_'s captain rose and began to pace.

"I'm sure we can make it worth your while, sir," Denethor spoke up, dropping his own hood and jingling the belt pouch at his side.

Finduilas turned on him, as scandalized as a cat caught in fishing net. "My Lord Denethor! This is not a simple matter of money!"

"Indeed, it is not," Imrahil knelt before the old captain. "Sir, if you grant me use of this ship, just this once, you shall have the gratitude of my house, and I shall grant you whatever favor it is in my power to do for you."

"Why such fuss? It is naught but a pleasure-cruise for you nobles. There are other boats you might use, which you might buy for a few hours' sailing in miserable weather. But this one is my life, my living. No purse is worth what she's given to me. No deed is worth risking her for some later favor. Your gratitude would be appreciated, milord, but of what good is it if you and your friends get yourselves killed in this storm?" The captain pointed towards the unquiet ocean beyond them.

"Because I saw the way she smiled at him. I saw the earrings she wore, just for him. Because she was my sister, and she chose to go to him. I don't think the waves knocked her off that pier." Imrahil looked steadily up into the old sailor's eyes. Finduilas stepped up behind him, clutching his shoulder firmly. Her expression was loving, but sorrowfully exasperated as she looked down upon him, shaking him slightly.

"Immy," she whispered. "She's not out there, Immy; not where we can reach. Let her go."

"A fine thing for you to say." The young man never made eye contact with his sister.

"She speaks the truth. I'd listen to her, my lord." The captain studied the trio before him consideringly. The youth had dropped his gaze with the lady's approach, and continued to study the wet wooden pier beneath them, looking for something that only he could see. The girl clung to him with both hands upon his arm, her eyes flitting between the boy's face and the apparent object of his stare. She chewed nervously upon a straying tendril of her autumn-blonde hair, awaiting her younger brother's reaction. Behind her, the man in the doorway squeezed dark gray eyes slowly shut, allowed himself a quiet sigh, and came forward to put a hand upon the boy's other shoulder.

"We're going." Denethor's voice brooked no more argument.

"But, -" Imrahil spluttered, the words dying upon his lips as he looked into the eyes of the two standing over him.

"We shall try some other day, then." Denethor nodded to the captain and pulled Imrahil to his feet. Finduilas wrapped her arm about her brother's, helping to turn his steps away from the rain-tent as quickly as she could.


End file.
